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Nancy’s parked around a corner only a block away, between darkened two-story homes that must date from the 1920s or 30s and haven’t had a thorough overhaul for a good forty years. I can make out front porches augmented with cinderblocks and steps rebuilt from loose brick. The owners have done their best to rehabilitate their homes despite the pervasive poverty. The moonless night, light-polluted gray of the three AM sky, and the deep shadows surrounding everything makes them feel outright ancient. The air tastes a little cleaner, but my sinuses have absorbed the service yard’s rust and grease and I feel like I’ll never breathe cleanly again.
Homes in this neighborhood don’t have central air, and I glimpse a whole bunch of windows that don’t have any glassy reflection from the ambient
